Speechless
by 247Lyricism
Summary: The final confrontation after watery nightmares, a whistling kettle, and memorable passages. Young lovers find themselves searching for answers and receiving. I want to *receive* some reviews this time around.
1. How Red Rescued A Savior Unseated

**Speechless by Blu Wynd Faerie **

Rated PG13

_Chapter 1 – How Red Rescued A Savior Unseated_

It would be so easy to fall.

As Spider-man dropped one rope of web and free-fell thirty feet before shooting out another, he wondered what it would be like to simply let himself plummet to his untimely death like an anchor to the bottom of the sea. It would be so easy and look so accidental. A fire-laced rush lined him at the mere thought of letting himself die; the feeling was partway of fear, partway of release. Would it be better that way? He saw himself tumbling in his mind, weak as a rag doll; his eyes shut as his form hit pavement and he whip-lashed before falling still. His mind fell to a solemn silence at the idea. 

But he kept shooting out more spider webs to the cornerstones of buildings, and he wondered why. Spider-man blamed the fact that the motion was automatic at that time, and something about avenging his dead uncle rang bells in the back of his head, but, in truth, he had become a lifeless robot. He was dull and vacant and everything seemed to blur together in a meaningless blob that was his life.

Life was a thing that did not seem too straight anymore. Spider-man's life was certainly hardly worth living. It constituted risking his feeble life daily, watching his best friend cry nightly in front of his father's murderer, denying himself the one thing, the one love, which he craved more than food, sleep, or any other usual, necessary function. He saved some, he hurt some, he destroyed some. He was losing himself to the whirlpool that sucked him dry: existence. What kept him holding on, doing what he did? He could hardly remember anything anymore except for that painful burn, itching sting, heart-wrenching tease. Shreds of himself littered the world.

He flipped himself onto the edge of a building, clinging to the molding. What if it gave, crumbling under his weight, letting him topple down in the direction of hell? He made a sleek move, catlike, stepping backwards on to the roof, and crouched down, silhouetted against the sunset's rainbow of reds, oranges, and pinks. He was on city patrol, as usual, and with a cautious eye he watched the busy crowds swarm out of buildings.

Below him, things were so small. People looked like flecks of dirt, insignificant and vulnerable, and the streetlights ran from red to green to yellow in a monotonous, boring cycle. The cars looked like disproportioned neon ants. The sides of gleaming, glassy buildings made a sort of boxed hallway down to the street below, inviting, edged in the silver and gold lights as the moon peeked out and the sun slipped beyond the rose-colored horizon. 

If he died, would any of them care about the passing of Spider-man? But, then, what did it matter? They couldn't give him what he wanted. They couldn't forgive him, couldn't save him, couldn't take away his cursed alter-ego.  

Things were still enough. It was time to take up the offer. 

Thoughtlessly, Spider-man flung himself off of the edge of the 50-story tall office building, diving as if he were about to skim off a pool. He spread his arms as he fell, as if he was crucified. Partway, the comparison was correct. He was the savior unseated, unappreciated. Wind washed over him furiously as if he were caught in a tornado. 

The streaks of light became unending beams. The rush of mirrored windows cast a glare into his eyes. Flipping as he fell, he knew that he could make a decision. If he wanted to, he could let himself fall until he hit earth, let those familiar New York streets take him captive.  That city, made of steel and pavement, was haunted for him with ghosts of murderers and fires, thieves and sickness, and a dead uncle that stirred lifelessly in his grave. What had happened to the beauty, the human life whispering and screaming at once in the heart? He had lost that. Sadness enveloped him, bleak and gray. 

Spider-man reasoned with himself. Why should he stop himself? His mind blanked as he lost himself to the passionate feeling of freedom as gravity yanked him down. Who was he again? Wasn't he Spider-man? But there was another being under the suit whose name he had forgotten, a being who had grown numb and mute.  

The ground was nearing, the black streets similar to jaws waiting to snatch him up; the black teeth were the citizens he had saved and saved again. How far was he now until his demise? He had fallen so far, so long, it seemed.  He had suffered so long.

And it was then that something red swept him away. 

The red was a fever, a virus taking over his system. The red was a zeal, a blinding zodiac sun in his mind. The red was a hand reaching out and taking his wrist and a voice saying, "Come back." The red was two eyes watching him mournfully, pleading with him to shoot out a curling tendril of webbing and cling to life. The red was the back of a head, covered in vibrant hair; the head turned and the eyes watched him from the other side and a smile cracked and saved him. 

Spider-man shot out a strand quickly and swung with it to a ledge of a low building. The red became a seething memory branded to his brain. He looked down, and the red was all over him: on his face, on his hands, spread across his chest, imprinted over his heart. 

Mary Jane was red. 

He panted a few times, shocked. What had he almost done? He woke up, silver eyes masking the fear behind the blue. Pushing black night from his brain as the true dusk fell softly, he swung himself down an alley as a shortcut and to a small apartment building. Perching across the way from it, Spider-man gazed through a window, curtained in green-blue fabric. Outlined by a weathered light, Mary Jane stood, her face to the mirror opposite the window, the reflection watching the girl. She played her fingers along a few wisps, slipping them behind her ears. She ran a glinting silver comb through her hair, that red, that saving red. Sweet music played from inside. 

The eyes in the mirror flinched. The reflection spotted Spider-man outside the window. She turned around to the window, and he was frozen, discovered, his sticky feet almost glued by her gaze. Glass lifted, but walls remained.

"You must have a name," she suggested to the masked man, "a name that you hide under your getup." Her voice sounded like lilacs tumbling onto a marbled floor, like water hissing over steamed rocks. He could have slept at her voice. In his deep dreams at night, the ones he craved to hold but always forgot, he could hear her singing him old lullabies.

"Nobody knows that name," Spider-man answered coolly. 

"Are you so certain?" she challenged, leaning out, her fingertips strumming along the windowsill. Her face was emotionless except for the slight narrowing of her eyes which hinted at the rebel lurking like a beast inside of her night. Terror gripped him by the throat, lashing green fingers across his windpipe. 

He craned his neck towards her curiously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Mary Jane replied, "Some things we just have to figure out for ourselves." He blinked at her underneath the mask, jaw agape. Could she see through the silver sheen of his mask's eyes? He felt weak and exposed and out of himself, as if the world had fallen away from him to land in pieces at his feet. Before he could question her, she asked, "What are you doing here so late?"

He told her honestly, "I was watching you." 

"Why? I didn't take you for a spy." Mary Jane crossed her arms in expectation as if she were anticipating an apology from a disobedient child. Why did she make him feel so small, hardly a hero at all? At, yet, when she had kissed his lips under the mask, Spider-man had never been stronger, more glorious, more eternal. She confused him. He loved her still.

Spider-man shrugged, appearing nonchalant to the careless observer. He was getting very good at hiding his true feelings. He was actually literally trembling in his boots. "You're very beautiful," he said softly. She blushed pink and recoiled slightly from the window.

"If you're trying to pursue me-" she started, her voice somewhat warning. 

"No," he protested, shaking his head, regretting his words and this strange game he had been playing. Did he think that the mask gave him a chance to flirt, to chase her, to play at love? Did he think he wasn't endangering her this way? The mask had made all the trouble and it would stir up more if he tried to fake a romance outside of his real skin, inside the red suit. "I'm sorry. I know that you love someone else." 

"So, he must have told you," she said bluntly. "Well, Spider-man, I don't want to ask too much of you, but if you are going to talk to him, could you tell him that I'll always be waiting?" Something in her eyes pierced him. Who was she really talking to? Was she seeing through the costume which now seemed so sheer? 

He nodded dumbly, mute, paralyzed. "Sure." Would she really always wait for him? But it would be a wait in vain. It would only ache inside of her for so long before it turned her as numb as ice, like him.  There's only so much strain that the human heart can take, and he could bear the thought of himself pushing her to her extreme. Either way, the sky was grim.

"I appreciate it," she whispered. He wished she hadn't said it, and, yet, he was glad that she had. 

"He means best," Spider-man blurted out. "He really does. He never meant to hurt you." Under his second skin, he bit his lip. He was stupid, and careless, and he had thought he knew restraint inside and out. 

"I know, but that doesn't mean he didn't," Mary Jane corrected. Those words reached deep down inside of him and wound up his heart into a great biog knot. She paused, laughing. "Are you going to watch me some more, _Spider-man?" she asked, stressing the first syllable in a jest. He chuckled and shifted uneasily. _

"I'll go, then, and let you sleep," Spider-man murmured, leaping up to a higher ledge, not looking at her, hearing his voice fall on the deaf bricks and closed windows with the lamplights burning dim.

"Wait," Mary Jane called after him. He looked back at her, the fake eyes searching. "Don't you have something to say?"

He did. That was why he had come after all. "There are a lot of things that we don't understand, that we don't really know," he said in an obvious fashion.  He couldn't bear to meet her eyes, even if she couldn't see his own. "There are things we can't see."

"Of course," she said breathlessly. Her eyes were wide, as if she were waiting for something that she was sure would come, like the sunrise or the half-tide falling.

"And, though you might not know it, you do things for Peter that you never see. You affect him in so many ways. He might never be able to stutter out the words to you himself, so that's why I'm telling you that you are every shred of strength he's got," Spider-man uttered cautiously, casting foreign, alien glances at her. 

She chewed her lip, and he could see her tremble. "You think?"

"I know," he said with certainty. "Goodnight, Mary Jane."

"No! Don't leave me like this on the edge. You've got to tell me one thing, please," begged Mary Jane, her head sticking out of the window, knuckles pale.  "Do you think that strength stems from something deep?" she whispered across the alley between them, her lips moving in perfect, crisp pronunciation.

Spider-man saw helixes twisting, his DNA changed and contorted, the bonded ladder rungs cracking and splitting and regrouping into chemical strength. He saw an elderly man sprawled on the concrete, blood seeping through weathered shirt and jacket from a moist hole, the red liquid all over his own hands, making him fierce with strength. Spider-man saw webbing fueled by red strength, red hair over pale shoulders, brilliant eyes and lush lips coaxing him over the hill in a joint caress.

"Yes."

"That's all," Mary Jane said quietly. "I'm sorry I kept you, but I had to know." Spider-man nodded, wanting to smile but unable to. His finger, alone, traced the edge of brick and mortar. It was awkwardly still.

"Somebody's calling me," he said, hearing a voice in his mind scream, claw at his brain, his cursed sixth sense.  "I have to go." Mary Jane watched him swing away from her, singing a hasty "So long!" and vanishing away from her limited view. Her eyes grew teary and she sighed and closed the window with a slam, her gaze on the street below.


	2. Transparent Mask, Purposeless Crucifixio...

**Speechless by Blu Wynd Faerie**

Rated PG13

_Chapter 2 Transparent Mask, Purposeless Crucifixion_

He saw that his hands were holding those of another. The other hands were feminine. 

Peter could tell by the way that they were shaped, how slender the fingers were. His

eyes trailed up them past a creamy arm, past a shoulder, fluttering up a neck to the most

gorgeous of faces. Eyes plucked at him, testing his strings out. 

Red lips formed syllables. "Some things we just have to figure out for ourselves," she rasped

in that husky, soft voice of hers; the words were so familiar. "Figure this!" she added with

a laugh, falling back into black waters. The pool splashed around her, drenching her blood-

colored hair and beading on her arms. Where had the water come from? It was edged in

gray-rooted oaks with no leaves.

"I don't understand," he said with a shake of his head. 

She cupped the dark liquid in her hands, flinging it at him. It burned like fire on his suit. 

"Afraid to get wet? But all things have a price," she purred. She extended her arms and 

floated, the acid all over her. "You have to get over the sting to feel the rush!" He hardly 

heard her; he only saw black eating her up. She giggled childishly.

"Stop," he cried, coming out towards her through the murky waters. "Stop swimming in here.

You're going to get yourself hurt." He leapt back out as it ate through his boots, catching his

feet alight. He whimpered as he saw her pulsing through the liquid.

"There are some things _you need to figure out!" she cried, her voice suddenly exasperated. He_

looked at her with his jaw agape and stepped back from her. "Before you save my neck, save

your own, blind man. You're damned now." She pointed an accusing finger at him, now standing

waist-deep. She dripped dark droplets back into the pool, and his heart sang out his horror.

The redhead nearly sounded depressed at his lack of understanding.

"Mary Jane-" he started. 

"Don't. You're sinking, but I'm afloat," she told him, motioning to his body. "Blind man!" 

Music in her song lingered upon his tortured ears, and she nearly sobbed. With

that his legs started to wobble, and the tide rose up to envelope them, dragging him down. 

He screamed once as the acid devoured his suit, leaving him on the beach of black sand

in his usual clothes, a wet sweater and khakis. He felt washed up as if he were a piece 

of driftwood.

She stood, menacing with her chin stuck out. "I told you so. I told you that you've got to get

over the sting to feel the rush. It's more of a risk to resist that to submit sometimes, Peter. 

Are you damned now?" she asked rhetorically. "Get up and swim, blind man." 

"But-"

"Figure it out, Peter! Haven't you figured it out yet?" she whined.

"_What?" he sobbed, sprawled out on the dreadful beach. "What do you mean? What do I_

need to figure out?" He sounded exasperated and exhausted. He turned up his face to

a gray sky. 

"Some things we just have to figure out for ourselves," she answered mysteriously.

"Tell me," he begged. "Please, don't tease me. What do I need to figure out?" He stumbled 

to his feet, but then he tripped on a loose rock and slid into the rising tide. It corroded

at his pant legs, making him gasp.

"I just told you," she said. "You need to live for yourself, not for anyone else, Peter. You need

to figure it out for yourself." She turned away and dove into the pool again, and he never

saw her again as she vanished like a shadow under the depths.

Peter woke up with a scream, his warm body entangled in the bed sheets, soaked with

sweat. Panting, he gulped a few hard breaths back. His dreams were even tormented; 

the sandman was not even sympathetic. The room around him seemed to be no happier than

the nightmare that he'd abandoned, and the closed blinds cast shadows over his face and

his hands, which clutched the sheets. Peter caught his breath, his chest heaving madly, his

wide eyes glaring around for an attacker or a messiah. All he saw was the foot of his bed

and the door, and neither solved his problems. 

He wondered how the blankets had managed to wind around his neck, over his back,

down his leg and around a foot. Peter struggled to see the clock on the wall; it was roughly 

one o'clock in the morning. He groaned lifelessly, knowing sleep was precious then, and

with perspiring palms he gave up against consciousness.

Disengaging himself from the quilt that seemed to strangle him, he made his way to

the dimly-lit kitchen. Peter chugged down a glass of water to cool himself down,

feeling liquid drain down his throat. The drip and the ice yelled at him and shook his

shoulders, reminding him of Mary Jane's innocent face soaked with tar-like pool water,

the rivulets coming down her back and falling in droplets with a tinkering bell noise.

That certainly did not calm his weary, weathered soul down. He dropped his glass but

caught it and set it in the sink, fumbling for control over the object. He made his way to the 

balcony, hoping maybe fresh air might soothe him. Had he slept? It had seemed so

real, and he was still exhausted.

He stood at the balcony, his sweaty hair tossed and wild in the moonlight. The city lights

reflected in his eyes, and a million sparks shattered at the scenery. Why hadn't he noticed

the spectacular midnight view recently? Like gems and beaded ornaments, the streets glittered,

the skyscrapers echoed the electricity, and the stars mimicked the pattern. It was almost

brighter than daytime. He saw multi-faceted droplets on the edge of his balcony, made

from night dew; he noticed them because they glinted a neon sign back into his face.

There was no escape from the imagery.

Peter raked a few fingers through stray hair. Restlessly, he staggered to his room and pulled

on his costume, trying to remain quiet. He held the mask in his hand, watching the 

eyes gleam silver on his face, and he felt haunted. He put it over his head so he wouldn't

have to see Spider-man's strange face, but that didn't stop the eerie feeling creeping

like a million bugs over his belly. He had a feeling that the mask was no longer red,

but transparent. 

He passed his roommate's bedroom; Harry was groaning and thrashing like a pit bull in

his sleep, his pale, weathered form shifting uneasily in the light beams that leapt

across his cheeks. The masked hero turned away, his innards twisting into tumors, 

and made his way to the balcony.

He sat with his feet dangling off the edge for long moments, his boots making a weird

tap-tapping sound with no rhythm or reason. He wasn't even thinking for once, only

looking out as the city seemed to vanish behind the horizon. Looking so hard and so

far nearly hurt. Spider-man pushed off the edge, letting himself drop before slinging

himself to the side of the building across the street. He crawled up the wall and leapt

to another rooftop, crouching as if he feared being seen, as if he were mask-less.

Spider-man didn't know where was going. All he knew that he was running, for lack of

a better idea. He ran from the stark, blank face of his dream, the ghostly stubborn chin 

that set in aggravation at his stupidity. He fled from the sting that edged over him, a sting

that he suspected was more mental and less physical. He escaped the torment of the

dark room where he slept, where the corners bled into the walls like liquid, where the

clock ticked like a leaking faucet, where the heaving in the next room painfully reminded

him of his own labored, fearful breathing. As he soared, he pondered the strangeness

of the dream, the meaning of the words, the splash of the pool, the look in Mary

Jane's eyes that tempted and teased and tormented and took. It ringed him in black

and made him uncomfortable. Why did dreams expose him while life made him into a caged

freak show?

What did it mean?

He jumped, and knew he had to find out for himself; no one else held the key. He crashed

onto another rooftop, and another, and another, as if he were searching for the answer

on the peaks of the city. 

Why did he fear the dream? Was it because she had been right?

The next night, she was cooking in her kitchen. She watched the water boiling hot and 

added some hard, crisp pasta noodles to the pot, stirring them in. The heat radiated

from the stove, and she wiped her warm cheeks with the back of her hand. She glanced

at her hand briefly. The smooth color was dotted with perspiration. She imagined a hand

in her own at the hospital, a hand clinging to webbing, a pair of caressing fingers across a cheek.

She bit her lip, seeing the hands blur together in her mind.  Mary Jane sighed and

turned around- and screamed, stumbling backwards into her open freezer door. 

Two silver eyes sparkled back at her, emotionless as usual, from outside her kitchen

window. Spider-man hung upside down, still, waiting like a panther spying on prey. His

gaze was penetrating her like knives that stripped away, leaving her heart bare. Why had

he come? He tapped the window, asking her to let him in. She laughed nervously, closing 

the door of her freezer and stepping forward. She set down her spoon and opened the window 

between their faces. The look on her face was confused, startled, curious as a newborn kitten.

And, though she knew nothing, she was glad for his presence at least.

He paused. "I had a dream about you last night," he said softly.

"So did I," Mary Jane answered through the threshold. "Did you dream the same thing I did?"

The question was idiotic, foolish and unanswerable, and she soon realized this. She swallowed

a frustrated sigh, remembering to bop herself over the head later. She was a skittish horse.

"I don't know," Spider-man said. "Why don't you tell me about yours, and then we'll see?"

She folded her arms. "I dreamt that I knew everything," she answered him. "I dreamt that

your mask dissolved and blew away like shredded paper and that the secrets of the world were in

your eyes, but I forgot it all when I woke up." Deep eyes searched his own, seeing nothing

there, just as she had seen nothing a few nights prior. Her seemingly apparent confidence made 

him reel with nervous, shaky angst. 

Spider-man gulped hard. "I dreamt something similar, except that you knew everything even

before you took off my mask," he confessed. "You knew my every wanting even before you

knew my identity." 

"Did you know that dreams stem not far from reality, Spider-man?" she brought up, placing a

hand on her hip. Some twinge in her voice, a slight raising and tremor, a note, hit a key

in him, alerting him to a powerful, vicious, storm-like nature locked inside of Mary Jane.

"I know," he said. "That's the part of it that keeps me awake," he whispered helplessly, hoping

she could not hear him. He was mistaken.

She leaned forward, resting her hands on the windowsill. "Do you fear me?" she gasped,

her head tilted. The blue of her eyes sparkled like crystals and he saw in them that she

hid so much, knew so much, conquered so much more than he thought. Mary Jane had never

scared him before so much before. She was the smart eagle, the brilliant schemer, the

deepest, most rotted corners of himself blooming again with raw, new light. 

"Yes," he answered quietly. 

"Why?" she challenged immediately.

He took a breath. "Because this mask means nothing to you." 

"Why does that scare you? Are you so reliant on it?" she questioned, resting her head

on the heel of her palm, naïve to the tangled threads inside of him.

He protested, "It's just unsettling to think that while everyone else only sees Spider-man,

you acknowledge that someone lives underneath him. You see a man underneath me, and no 

one has ever done that before." She leaned forward to him, unsure of herself, and 

swallowed hard, knuckles white as she gripped the windowsill. "You have power over the man 

under the mask, and that is why I fear you."

Breathless, Mary Jane reached out and barely touched his cheek, brushing a few stray

fingers across the ridges of the webbed design. It was like throwing ice on a flame, and the

sizzle and spark popped and crashed and burned in his mind. Against his will, he shivered. Careless

hairs fell into her face, and Spider-man closed his eyes, his gut wrenching at the

unattainable treasure in front of him. 

She was so close, and yet so far. He had dreams about her, but he could only hold

her then. This stage act at his most ludicrous, craved, false fantasies was softly

killing Spider-man.

Mary Jane craned out her neck to kiss her cheek. The moment that her lips tangoed

with the mask, everything fell away. Blood-stained claws snatched up his brain, ripping 

it apart in a grim reminder of the past: Mary Jane falling off a bridge her mouth open in

a shrill, terrified scream for help; his best friend's dead father, his limp body severed; an aunt 

blue in the hospital. How could he be so stupid? He was the lethal injection, the guillotine 

slicing, and the gunshot. He dropped from under her lips so that she kissed cold night

air. Her eyes widened with fire burning in them as a red blur went headfirst away from her.

Furious, she leaned out the window, glaring at his retreating form as it latched onto the wall

opposite her window.

"You're not allowed to be so close," Spider-man told her softly, looking up to

her shadow in the window.

"I think you've made that clear," she yelled at him across the street. "But don't think

you can keep away from me for so long, because I'm tired of this game and I won't play

it with you anymore. I know who you are!" she confessed finally. "I know where

you live. I know who your friends are, and I know what your job is, and I know all

about your life. I know-" She stopped and bit back tears. "I know your eyes. They are

that beautiful sky blue color that I love so much." Water flowed down her cheekbones,

pinked with her emotion. The sight of the drops on her face reminded him all too well

of a bad dream. 

He froze, as if he were shocked at her admittance; but he had known ever since he had 

fitfully woken a few nights before. He shrank into the wall. He started to crawl upward in 

a panicked fleeing, trying to escape her eyes and her words. He felt them penetrating,

nearly seeing a mirage of them inches from his own face. He was helpless.

He did not even look back at her, she went on, "You admit that I have power over you, and 

yet I cannot charm you back here." That made him turn his head slightly and deadpan in his 

tracks.

"I may have power over you, _Spider-man," she hissed, slowly pronouncing his alter ego's_

name. "But the person who has the most power of you is yourself." She gulped. "Only

you can see what's really inside of you."

His body twisted and his heart pounded. And, suddenly, everything made sense to him. 

Old words echoed in his brain: "You need to live for yourself, not for anyone else, Peter." 

Everything was hazy, overcast by the dark, impending cloud of frustration and confusion.

Like faded parchment, the dream-blurred words slurred into a winding rope around him.

Was that the answer? He had progressively surrendered himself to Spider-man,

and Peter was being sucked dry. Did he need to spend more time as himself

and let Spider-man be the sideshow?

There was a link. He felt it singing his insides, burning his mouth, torturing his lips. Did 

he need to live his life without regard for Spider-man? Did he need to forget that alter ego 

and love instead? Temperature rose.

He saw it shining, clear as pure, white light. She tempted him to love her. Wasn't that it?

She lured him to remove Spider-man from his makeup and brush away the name

like dust. The risk, a hog caged ready for slaughter, was so close, but she felt he might

pull the pin and release. He could sense the click.

Could he? Should he? He wanted to.

His brain had two sides. Both craved her, but one was cautious. Spider-man never

cried for help, but now he did in a rasp that only a sharp-eared eagle might hear. 

It was all too much too fast. He thought he had made his decision, firmly set;

she had fooled him once more. Whirlwinds of thoughts took him over, and he

felt dizzy. She had said that he alone had the power to look inside himself. And inside

he saw that he loved her more than life itself. His love was passionate, all-consuming,

unending and timeless. It was a candle that never died or wavered, a golden

sunlight on the horizon. Looking at that fact, he saw that he could not ignore that

love that had been eating away at him for years.

He knew that much. But he had to be the savior, no matter the price, didn't he? He

had been for so long that he had forgotten to be anything else. The

risk was too great, the gap to breach too wide. His own crucifixion was this. Spider-man

wanted to deny, to deny until his tongue fell off. 

"You need to live for yourself, not for anyone else, Peter," scolded a dream version of Mary 

Jane once more. Was his crucifixion justified, then? Did he really need to suffer? Was his 

cowardice damning him as the dream foretold? A burn reminded him that he had one life to 

live, just as she did. Could he squander that?

He couldn't say. He didn't know. He had to think, to get away, to escape the trouble that

he never could evade. Speechless, he scrambled for the rooftop of the building opposite hers.

He looked back at her, seeing a desperation lingering in her eyes. Mary Jane seemed

to be clinging to the last slivers of hope that she had. "Peter," she exhaled softly and

suddenly. 

"I – I'm scared out of my mind," he told her. "I see that I just lost everything

I used to know. I see that I don't know who to listen to anymore, and why." 

Spider-man nearly choked to see her crying. "All I know is that I-" His throat

latched onto itself in an impassable loop. White-hot terror gripped him. But when he

saw her eyes, Spider-man knew that she could read his mind some. Mary Jane maybe 

couldn't understand it all, but she saw into the pit of his heart and saw the light

glint there like a gem stuck in the rocks. Quickly, he blew her a kiss and departed around 

the corner of a building, leaving her crumpled on her floor in tears.


	3. The Reappearing Rabbit On Palm Sunday

New Note: **Wow. This new chapter hasn't been up for more than a day, and I've already gotten**

so many reviews. You all have no idea how happy I am. I have gotten such positive

feedback from all of you, and I cannot believe that so many people like it so much.

I'm just overwhelmed with joy, really. I think I'm going to cry! I am just absolutely

thrilled with this feedback and I really, really will try to write more stuff for all you

guys. **Thank you all! This has been a great day! **

I thank my reviewers. You guys have really given me a lot of support! You're all

so kind. I can make a few little "personal" responses. 

DarkAngel14x: I'm so glad that you reviewed _both chapters! I'm glad you liked the_

symbolism. I haven't really done that before, so I'm so happy it went over well. J

Little Wind: I do happen to like some anime. J I am getting better at angst! I've

never written angst before. And more points for symbolism! Woo-hoo!

KHBAJN: Ah, my wonderful supporter! Thanks for reviewing, and review the other

chapters, too! J 

Bumble-bee Queen: You made sense. I was really going for "lyrical" this round,

so it really made me feel great to see that someone else mentioning that I'd

achieved my goal.

I wonder where I pulled this whole crucifixion thing from! It fit really well, though,

and I'm glad that its wording got your support. Thanks again, nice reviewers! *raises

a cola* Cheers! 

Oh! I moved down the rating because I don't want people turned off by the fact

that it's rated R. I think it can slide for PG-13, don't you?

**Speechless by Blu Wynd Faerie**

Rated PG13

_Chapter 3 The Reappearing Rabbit On Palm Sunday_

She hoped in the deepest corners of her heart that he might gain his sight.

She prayed in her highest begging plea that some tuft of heaven might descend.

She wished, though she had no genie's lamp, that her hero might save her from

her loneliness!

She watched the rooftops, seeing nothing but sky. Mary Jane, frustrated, turned

from the curtained window, knowing that gazing at a person who wasn't even there

would not accomplish anything.

She spooned sugar into her tea and stirred it without emotion. The white powder

mixed in and dissolved before her eyes like a magic trick, suddenly gone. Yes,

where had Peter gone to? She knew he was avoiding her.

The wet silver spoon left spots of brown on her napkin. She tossed it in the trash

and put the spoon in the sink and returned to her drink. She sipped it, wishing

she could snatch away the evasive Parker. But her warning phone calls were

only answered by a long-since recorded voice. 

Her tea drained down her throat. Perhaps the soothing herbs might lull her to

sleep; she had thrashed under the covers three nights in a row, dreaming 

black thoughts of death and isolation. Every time she woke up crying, warm

tears down her face, but she could never quite remember what the dream was

specifically about, except that her happiness was killed each time.

There was a tiny puddle at the bottom of her cup. Where had the drink gone so fast?

Where had he gone so fast? 

Furious, she pushed away from the table, knocking over the empty tea cup onto its side

on the cheap plastic, the dribble of the beverage making a slight stain. Mary Jane

crashed out of the kitchen, leaving the burner still on and the kettle still whistling

and her heart pounding like a sledgehammer. The front door slammed shut behind her,

leaving the apartment empty.

She would see this through.

To be or not to be: that was the question, according to his literature teacher. It was

also his own top problem to marvel at. Should he be the hero, the red-cloaked 

urban warrior, or the schoolboy with his nose buried in Shakespeare?

Putting down the book, for one, was certainly tempting, but loving Mary Jane was

even more a plus of being Peter. 

But then again, part of him warned, Spider-man always tagged along with Peter,

and Spider-man brought trouble always. He didn't want trouble for her! 

But _she was going to stir up trouble, too, now that she knew everything._

Now she knew love was two-sided- and in more than one sense. First of all, her 

lover-boy had two sides to him, the silly photographer and the graceful spider.

And secondly, the feeling was reciprocal. Peter didn't know when she'd

figured that out, but he had paused in his tracks just long enough to give her the

hint. And he had blown her a goddamn kiss, for Christ's sake! How _stupid could_

he _be? How __hopeless could he be?_

He had diverged, and he drove on the correct side of the road again. Yes, she was going

to come after him, stalk him down, ask all the "how's" and "why's" that he had

neglected to answer. She was going to tell him how much they deserved to be

together, and she wasn't going to let up until his ears cracked apart. He could 

nearly hear her now.

Peter could hear her sobbing out her love for him, hear her cry in vain, hear

her protest her banishment, her exile from his arms and kiss. She was going to

make _him cry, and she hadn't even come yet. _

(Shakespeare was long forgotten.) 

And, yet, wasn't she right? 

Of course. She was always right! After trial and tear, after flesh and blood shed,

didn't the time spent count as sacrifice enough, as proof of devotion? Didn't that

stand up to danger? She was so right.

But that didn't mean that he had to listen to her. He could be wrong if he had to be if it 

meant her safety. 

He threw his literature book down, not even realizing he was taking out his anger

on the object. He couldn't even be Peter. He had to be Spider-man and flee the scene 

every time, even though that might as well have been his demise. He fell onto his couch, 

burying his face in the pillow. 

A voice trembled in his mind. It was too much. "You have to get over the sting to feel

the rush," the dream reminded him. Again, the freakish nightmare pursued him. He

was going nuts. It didn't make any sense still. What was it that made him feel like a part

of the dream had slipped through his fingers like the acidic solution in his nightmare?

But he listened again as it repeated, and fog lifted.

"You have to get over the sting to feel the rush!"

He remembered old Bible pages flapping. He remembered ancient stories of a man,

a messiah, who stayed in the desert for forty days to beat the Devil. He triumphed through

his patience, confidence, and faith, and he was greeted by the waving of palms and 

cheering crowds.

Forty days wasn't the number of days since he'd defeated his Devil, but Spider-man

had still killed the Goblin. He had been smooth and cool and calm, but he hadn't come

out of the dry, barren desert yet. The desert had consumed him, but waiting there was

a world of possibilities when he returned to the world of the living.

He was enduring the sting. He had seen his friends get hurt, seen himself get hurt,

and watched the world flip ten times around until he stood weakly where he was. So much

had happened. But, no matter what, things like that would always happen to any

person, superhero or no. Wasn't it time for the rush? He could let his world be full of

suffering to the point of breaking like an overly-inflated balloon; or he could fill in the

gaps with little red roses and pray the wall didn't tumble on top. If he couldn't have

total happiness and ease, shouldn't he have at least a little bit of joy? Pain always 

followed Peter like a shark led by blood, but good things were bound to come along.

He could leave it, or he could take it.

The door- he had to get to the door.

The doorknob turned, but he was not greeted by air. Instead, Mary Jane stood with her

hand on the knocker. Like magic or fate, Mary Jane had indeed tracked down Peter.

She opened her mouth, about to say something, but he stopped her with a hand over

her mouth. He shook his head once. Taking her hand off the doorknocker, he led her

into the room, still cupping her lips with his other hand. Peter kicked the door closed behind

them and listened to the lock catch, his eyes totally on her. 

This was it, she knew. This was the moment of truth, or rejection or denial or surrender

to the heart's longing, and she didn't know which. The tension was peeling her apart

like an orange.

Slowly, still clinging to her other hand, he removed his palm from her mouth, hoping she

got the hint to not speak. She did and remained silent. He was slightly hesitant, but when

he gazed into her depths and saw what she had come for, he knew damn well that he

was going to give it to her.

Their lips met. Mary Jane's purse fell to her feet with a thud as it slid off her shoulder.

Their latched fingers unclasped only for the hands to reach out to meet skin on necks,

faces, shoulders. A fireball streaked by and consumed them both, leaving 

raw phoenixes burning there, alight in their passion, their final joining.

They briefly parted, and a question hung in her eyes. She begged that this wasn't

a game, wasn't a consolation for the lost cause. But, no, this was something more.

The confession was there, unspoken. 

He nuzzled into her shoulder, crying softly. Mary Jane stroked Peter's hair softly,

comfortingly, and kissed his temple. She raised her head to the stars, knowing there

was a god – or at least a genie – who answered wishes, and she let the relief fall

down in quick droplets. 

Ta-da! I have reached the end. Or have I? Should I do more? I kind of like it how it is. 

Review, **please!**


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